“Our legends say that we have the blood of men in our veins, Lord,” the second hobgoblin replied.
As I suspected, he thought, now to see if they could help with my journey. He still had fifty-five leagues left to reach where he moored his ship. “That is as I thought. Now, to business, do you have any means of transport faster than by foot? I have six days to travel yet, to reach the coast where my ship awaits.”
“Lord,” the first one again, “we have boats that could run the river, out to the sea, but that way is long and treacherous. Better for you, Lord, would be to ride a yag.”
“Show me one of these ‘yags’ of which you speak
Chapter 6
Shilwezday, Day 26, Sowing Moon. 8760 Sudean Calendar
Hadaras roused himself at dawn, leaving the trance state in which he spent each night. He could not afford the luxury of true sleep while on the road, but the trance allowed enough rest for his body and mind to maintain. He could keep it up for years, if needed and he had many times in his life. He was impressed to see Aleron already tidying up camp. “Good Aleron, I’m glad you’ve gotten started already. This will speed us on our way.”
“Thank you Grandfather. I was beginning to get sleepy, so I figured I would get to work to keep myself awake. I just fed the horses, so after we eat, we should be ready to go,” Aleron explained.
After a quick breakfast of bannock, from the night before, cheese and dried sausages, they were back on their horses. Aleron could feel each hoof beat, as his sore behind bounced on the stiff leather saddle. He winced quite often and Hadaras chuckled to himself. It’s amazing that I can still find mindless humor in things after nine thousand years in this world. I have seen such things in my life as would purge the mirth from anyone. He often wondered why he had lived so long. Three thousand years was an average lifespan for an elf. Twice that was not unheard of, but he had lived three times what was typical. His own father had lived nearly six thousand years, which may explain it to some extent. Hadaras’ mother gave birth to him when his father, Balgare, was a mere nine hundred years old. Hadaras believed then that if he were to ascend to the throne of Elvenholm, it would be an exceptionally short reign. Hadaras’ mother, Chaldee, disappeared when he was two hundred-fifty four, leaving King Balgare heartbroken. For centuries, Elvenholm had no Queen, due to his mourning. Eventually, the King remarried and when his half-brother Aelwynn was born in 5861, by the elvish calendar, Hadaras gladly passed the title of Crown Prince to his younger sibling. The job of High Sorcerer was more than enough for him at the time. Aelwynn, as well, lived over four thousand years, passing through the veil to rejoin the Allfather little more than a century ago, but still Hadaras lived on. I’ve outlived my parents, siblings and even my children. Will I even outlive this precious grandchild riding beside me?
***
Jessamine sat upon a bench outside the cottage, enjoying the morning sun. At one point, she glanced over to the hedge that had snared her attacker the night before. She still felt some misgivings for that, but there was nothing that could change what had happened. She prayed that the man’s spirit was not so maligned that it would reject the embrace of the Allfather when it crossed the veil. She could sense the thoughts going through the mind of her lover. Having been conceived when the Cosmos was young, she possessed knowledge that even one so old as Hadaras could not hope to comprehend. She suspected that his mother, who he knew as Queen Chaldee, was not an elf at all. None but the Allfather can know when or if Hadaras might die of natural causes. She could tell that he was not immune to death by injury and he displayed some superficial signs of ageing, but there was something else, not altogether elvish about him. Jessamine also wondered what import this ancestry would have on her young charge Aleron. He was heir to the Sudean throne, by direct male lineage, forty generations removed. Additionally, he was great-grandson of the first High King of Elvenholm and whatever his consort was. Aleron’s was likely the most unique lineage of any man that had ever lived, even among halfbloods.
***
As the morning wore on, Aleron became more comfortable in the saddle. The muscles of his legs warmed up and his behind just went numb. His thoughts mostly revolved around how tired he was. Four hours of sleep, broken into two-hour intervals, was not what he was used to. He yawned deeply as he took in the scenery. The hedge rowed fields had given way to mixed wooded rangeland. He noted a shepherd tending his flock off to the left. Ahead and to the right, he could see a small herd of what looked like aurochs. They all appeared to be brown cows, with none of the larger black bulls among them. He wondered if they would see elk or wisent on this trip. He hoped so, but preferably at a distance for the wisent. The wild cattle had a reputation for unpredictable aggressiveness. Grandfather is deep in thought. He hasn’t spoken in over an hour. I wonder what he is thinking right now. But mostly, Aleron wondered how Hadaras could be so alert with only half a night’s sleep. Aleron could hardly keep his eyes open, even with the horse jostling him constantly.
***
Zormat looked doubtfully at the odd creature before him. The yag was superficially similar to a horse, appearing to be, in some way, related. It stood about five feet tall at the shoulder, the stout body supported on thick sturdy legs. The feet were the strangest part, being three toed hooves, instead of single or cloven. The head was vaguely horse like, but short, wide and housing a full set of sharp canine teeth. Across the pen, he witnessed another yag dart forward and snap up a lizard that made the mistake of sunning itself on a fencepost. Others in the pen were grazing on forage as normal horses would. “You ride these things?” he asked the hobgoblins incredulously.
“Yes, my Lord,” the one he knew now as “Shaggat” told him. “Horses do not do well here, but the yag is from this land.”
“Is it faster than walking?”
“Not by much, my Lord, but it should get you to the coast a day earlier and better rested than on foot.”
“I suppose that is better than walking,” Zormat replied, not quite believing his own statement. “And how will you retrieve your animal? The coast is several days ride from here.”
“I will accompany you, as your guide and protection my Lord, if that is acceptable to you,” Shaggat answered, swatting the yag as it nipped at him.
“That is an acceptable solution,” Zormat agreed. “I will welcome your company and protection, my friend.” He had no need of guidance or protection from this creature, however, he felt it best to humor him. I think it may be advantageous let these hobgoblins feel useful and important. Happy loyal minions perform better than those held merely by fear of retribution do. He planned to use these people in the war to come. They looked to be more strong and robust than the original breeds of goblin, as well as more intelligent and articulate. He might even consider bringing some of these to Arkus, along with some men, to improve the breed of goblin there. These hobgoblins were still ugly, but were more pleasant to look at than those he was familiar with.
This Shaggat was a passable fighter as well. After the communal midday meal Zormat attended, as guest of honor, a young male stood to challenge Shaggat for his position as Chief over the band. Shaggat knifed the upstart between the ribs, mere minutes into the duel, exclaiming, “Here’s the meat for tonight’s supper,” as the youth spasmed in the dust, forming red mud from the blood pouring freely from his chest. Up until that moment, Zormat wondered if this new sort of goblin was too civilized to be effective. He saw then that these hobgoblins possessed the ruthless streak common to all goblins.
Riding out from the hobgoblin village, Zormat struggled to control the unruly three-toed ass. This was not one of his father’s creations and as such, he had no special command of this beast. Shaggat was faring only slightly better, continually slapping his mount and formulating ever more colorful strings of curses. And so, they bounced along on their days long journey to the coast where the ship and its crew awaited.
***
The sun was low in the western sky when Hadaras remarked, “We should prob
ably find a spot to camp for the night,” startling Aleron awake. “That hilltop to the northeast looks like it has some cover,” he continued, pointing ahead and to the left at a wooded hilltop. They were travelling through an area of rolling hills with mixed patches of forest and shrubby grassland. They had spooked several deer, but the two had resisted the temptation to take one, as they had not the time to process a large game animal. They did, however, take three rabbits with blunted arrows that afternoon, so they would dine well that night.
Aleron yawned and stretched, then stated, “I can’t wait to slip into my bedroll tonight. I’m so tired I’ll be asleep before my head hits the ground.”
“If we get settled in early enough, Aleron, I’ll take a longer first watch, so you can get more sleep.”
“That wouldn’t be fair, Grandfather. I’ll take my full share of the watch.”
“My boy, when you get to be my age, you don’t need as much sleep as a lad still growing, like yourself,” Hadaras explained. “I can see that you need a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Otherwise, you are likely to get sick, if you go night after night without sleep.”
“All right,” Aleron agreed. “I sure could use some sleep.”
They came upon a narrow track leading off the main path to the left. It appeared to lead to the hilltop in question and they followed it. They halted at a stream crossing to allow the horses a brief drink and to refill the water skins. Though there was no shortage of water in this part of the world, a smart traveler never passed up the opportunity to top off. They continued to follow the path and were happy to note that, a bit further along, it rejoined and followed the stream towards the base of the hill. That was good news, as it meant that they would have less of a walk to water the horses after they cooled down. Nearing the base of the hill small trickle branched off from the main stream and the path followed that up the hill. The smaller stream led to a spring that was enlarged into two pools, the higher one for travelers and the lower for livestock. Both pools had been smartly edged with stone, bringing the water level higher to form deep troughs. This was obviously a maintained rest stop, but maintained by who was the question.
As the two continued up the path, the brush gave way to larger trees, mostly oak, with some ash. They could smell the smoke of a cook fire ahead and knew that they would not be alone that night. “Be on your guard Aleron. We cannot know what sort of people we might encounter on the road, or what their intentions might be.”
“I understand, Grandfather,” He answered.
A bit further, they were able to hear faint music, from some sort of stringed instrument. They proceeded with caution. What bothered Hadaras was not so much that there was someone ahead, but that he had no sense of the one ahead. I can pick out the minds of most men from miles away, but of this, I sense nothing. When they rounded the last bend of the trail and came within sight of the sheltered glade, just below the top of the hill, they saw the man. Seated on the ground, with his back against a log, he had his legs stretched toward a modest fire and was playing a zither, held in his lap. The intricate tune he plucked from the strings was hauntingly beautiful. He ignored the newcomers, until his song was complete. Hadaras and Aleron dismounted and simply stood immersed in the strange melody.
The stranger stopped playing, looked up at the pair and said, “Welcome friends. I hope you enjoyed my meager attempt at musician-hood. Please, make yourselves at home. I have little, but what I have is yours to share. My name is Cladus.” He stood then, gently leaning the instrument against the log. He was tall and generally handsome, with long brown hair and moustache, but no beard. His eyes were a bright emerald green that seemed ill matched to the man’s complexion. He wore sturdy boots, with trousers and tunic that, though worn and mended in a few spots, were of good quality and clean. He wore no sword, but he had a pair of long knives fixed horizontally to the back of his belt. His lone horse was picketed beneath a large sheltering oak.
“Well met Cladus, I am Hadaras and my young charge here is Aleron. We have food to share as well and would welcome a place at your fire.”
“Excellent, let me help you with the horses then.”
After they unpacked and rubbed down the horses, Aleron led them back down to the waterhole to drink their fill. When he led them back up the hill to picket then and tie on their feedbags, Hadaras and Cladus had the rabbits dressed and spitted over the fire. Hadaras had mixed up a pot of bannock. Now he was busy winding the dough around sticks for baking over the fire. Cladus used one of his long knives to reduce longer limbs to usable firewood lengths. The knife’s blade was over a foot long and thick, with a spear point shape and a single cutting edge.
It seemed more like a butcher’s cleaver than a fighting weapon. Hadaras commented, “That’s a Sultean seaxe, isn’t it? Not too common this side of the mountains.”
“Yes, I spent a few years with the westmen. The people are nice and friendly up there, though the girls play a little rough,” he added, in jest. He looked at Aleron as he said it, with a mischievous glint in his eye. Aleron was happy the light of the fire masked the redness of his face as he settled down by the men. Cladus continued, “Looks like you need to get this youngster to bed. He looks dead on his feet.”
Before Aleron could reply, Hadaras agreed, “That’s the plan. He didn’t get much rest last night with the two of us swapping watch shifts.”
“Don’t worry, young man,” Cladus said to Aleron, “you will eventually learn how to sleep with one eye open. All of us who travel the wilderness alone acquire the skill.”
After they ate, Aleron settled into his bedroll and promptly fell asleep, as Cladus played a new tune on the zither. He identified himself to the others as a travelling bard, earning his keep with songs, stories and news, wherever he went. After the boy was sound asleep, the bard stated, “Let’s not pretend anymore; shall we my friend? The two of you have some secrets about you, as do I.” He continued, “I could sense the horses and the boy from a mile away, but your presence was a complete surprise.”
“I, as well, could smell the fire and hear the music, but no mind could I sense,” Hadaras offered. “It seems you have some ability. May I ask, from where?”
“Let’s just say, that I was born a couple hundred years ago on the northwest coast, right on the border with the colonies in fact.”
“Was it your mother or father?”
“My father was the source of my elvish blood,” Cladus answered. “He took good care of my mother and me, until I was grown and she passed away. Then, he disappeared back to the elvish lands. I haven’t seen him in nearly one hundred fifty years. So yes, that boy you have there is not the only half-blood wandering these lands. I have encountered a few of us over the years. As for you, my new friend, I sense nothing of Man in you.”
“Fair enough,” Hadaras conceded, his human features smoothly morphing to elvish. “The boy is my grandson, my daughter’s son. I’ve been raising him since he was two.”
“Does he know what he is?”
“No”
“What happened to his parents?”
“They passed through the veil nearly thirteen years ago.”
“Thirteen years eh,” Cladus mused, “thirteen years ago, the Kolixtlanis were looking for a halfblood boy. Word of it travelled quickly among us magicians who knew of one another. Is this the boy? Is that what became of his parents?”
Chapter 7
Gurlachday, Day 1, Growing Moon, 8760 Sudean Calendar
After five bone-jarring days of riding, Zormat had only thoughts of murder for the yag. Unruly, cantankerous and omnivorous, it was the perfect mount for a goblin, but not necessarily an elf, even an elf that was one-eighth goblin. They rounded a bend in the trail and it opened to a clear grassy sward, with the beachhead just beyond. He scanned southward down the beach and could see his ship moored in the distance. There appeared to be a small group massed on the beach. They rode down the beach at a vigorous trot, the yag’s odd feet floating on the loose sandy soil. A
s they neared the group, he could see that they were men, dressed in light armor and appearing to be soldiers of some sort. Closing to within thirty paces of the group, they halted the mounts and Zormat handed the reins to Shaggat. He dismounted and strode purposefully to the group. The apparent leader shouted something at him in a language he did not understand and the six lancers flanking him raised their weapons to a guard position. Two archers, armed with longbows, moved to the outer flanks to provide cover. Zormat drew his sword, glowing like red flame, even in the bright afternoon sun. The seven-pointed star on his forehead flared with the same fire. The leader gave a quick hand signal and the soldiers stood down. He said something else that Zormat did not understand, but its tone sounded reasonable.
We do not speak the same tongue, so I will communicate with you in this manner, Zormat spoke into the mind of the leader, sheathing his sword as he came to a halt. Speak as you normally would and I will understand you while we are so connected.
“I can understand you, stranger,” the leader offered, then asked, “Who are you and why do you travel with the goblin? Do you belong to this vessel?”
The ship is mine, yes and this goblin has been my guide from the jungle interior. I have journeyed to and from Immin Bul and I have much work remaining.
You bear the mark of the Nameless God, but I do not recognize you from any folk who worship him. What is your business in Kolixtlan?
I come at my Father’s bidding, from a far off land, to spread the word amongst his people that he will soon be freed from his prison.
With the wordless transmission of thought, the full import of the title “Father” hit the man like a battering ram. He immediately genuflected, saying, “Son of the Nameless God, please forgive me my insolence.” At their leader’s words and actions, the other soldiers dropped their weapons in the sand and dropped to one knee as well, averting their eyes to the ground.
The Halfblood King: Book 1 of the Chronicles of Aertu Page 5
